


Together Or Not At All

by Guardian_Rose



Series: Together We're Golden [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), can be read as:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-04-24 00:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19162483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Rose/pseuds/Guardian_Rose
Summary: It’s just that...well, it’s taken them six thousand years to get onto the same page on how they feel and whether they’re going to feel it together and for how long they’re going to stay feeling it together. Crowley lusts after a forever with Aziraphale like his world would end without the angel by his side. But Aziraphale is slow, is taking his steps on his own time. Which Crowley is fine with! Aziraphale hasn’t been comfortable discussing it and whilst they’ve done other things, kissing and sleeping in the same bed and always, always touching, they haven’t labelled it. Though Crowley craves the permanence. He expects Aziraphale does too. But it’s fine. The awkward dinner conversations it creates are fine.***Aziraphale has a plan and a box hidden in his jacket pocket. Crowley has nightmares and an empty cottage to fill. Together they have a life to build on the foundations of a fresh start.Oh and the occasional visit from the antichrist.





	1. Chapter 1

To his utmost surprise, it’s the kids that are the worst. They push and pry with their questions and their questions aren’t always the typical fare (‘Why do you wear sunglasses ALL the time?’, ‘Why are you hissing at the plants?’, ‘where’d you come from?’). They ask why he’s always on his own. Why he spends afternoons in the park on the phone with someone. They ask him, once, whether he has a wife. He laughs, riotously, at this and they scurry away when he shows no signs of stopping. It’s not until he’s tucked away in bed in the cottage that he starts to think about it again. He most certainly doesn’t have a wife. Or a husband for that matter. But he does have an angel. Who is in London. Will be until he’s got his books sorted and safe. Crowley moved into the cottage four days ago. He’s still got some boxes stacked against the walls of the living room. 

 

Aziraphale, for now, is just a voice on the other end of the phone. Crowley knows it’s silly to let the kids get under his skin about being there on his own, tells himself so every time he catches himself gazing morosely into the middle distance like some kind of distressed Victorian damsel. He’s spent whole centuries without bumping into Aziraphale a handful of times. But somehow it’s different now. Not just because they’re different. Which they are, but he also knows that nothing’s really changed on that front. They still feel the same as they had for millennia, they’ve just gotten into the habit of expressing it. Through kisses hello and goodbye, with nights spent teaching the angel to sleep, by agreeing to move into a cottage together. Crowley fell into the habits of a partner as he fell from Up Above. With a great amount of pride and an unearthly amount of curiosity. It’s hard to break those habits, even just for a short period of time. 

 

Crowley pulls the duvet up to his chin, curls on his side and wiggles around so his wings are freed from that incorporeal state they exist in most of the time. He wraps them round himself and pretends its the same as having Aziraphale there, holding him.

 

***

 

Aziraphale, in an odd turn of events, finds that he’s actually craving sleep in the middle of the day. He’s been awake since the morning Crowley left to go and set up the cottage. That’s about...five days now? Maybe? He’d struggled greatly with getting to sleep, and then staying asleep, when he’d first started trying. But he’d stuck with it for Crowley’s sake. Determined to give the demon this one harmless thing he was asking for. Not that it was really asking. It was more that Crowley kept falling asleep on him in an evening and not waking up even when Aziraphale carried him up to the bed that hadn’t been used so much in all its life. Aziraphale took the hint and started trying to sleep alongside Crowley, holding the demon to his chest. Easing him out of nightmares plagued with fire and fear. Now, without Crowley here, he isn’t sleeping. 

 

He’s regretting it. 

 

There’s too much to do before he can lie down though. Books to sort into storage and such. This shop, remade by Adam, is a home in and of itself. Has been home to Aziraphale for decades. It’s difficult to leave that behind. 

 

The phone rings as he’s finishing up one of the shelves. He dusts off his jacket and picks it up with lightly trembling fingers, the other hand catching a displaced order receipt. A fancy logo in the top left corner, Aziraphale’s account details near the bottom. ‘You were served by Francine today! Let us know how we did online!’. If his delivery doesn’t get here soon he might just do that, a bad review won’t sink the company after all. Only if Crowley leaves it, he has a way with things like that.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Angel,” Crowley sighs from the other end, Aziraphale can’t help the flash of worry that chills his lungs, “how much longer ‘til you think you’ll be here?”

 

“Why? Is something wrong?”

 

“No, no. I just...how long?”

 

“I don’t know, my dear. I don’t think much longer now. How is it down there? Is the garden up to scratch?”

 

“Getting there. The roses are particularly pathetic but I can get that sorted out by the end of the month, easy. How’re the books?”

 

“They’re not um loving the change around. Have had to do some repairs to keep some intact.” The lie runs off his tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste.

 

“Ah. Sounds busy.” A pause that Azraphale will only realise later was his opportunity to  _ say something _ . “I’ll leave you be, then.”

 

“You didn’t need anything?”

 

“No,” Crowley scoffs. “‘Course not.”

 

Aziraphale twists the phone wire round a finger, reading over the receipt again. “Oh. Right.”

 

“Yeah.” Crowley draws it out.

 

“Well, okay then. I’ll talk to you tonight?” Aziraphale suggests with a pointed bit of cheer.

 

“Tomorrow, actually. Is best. I’ve got plans tonight.”

 

The cheer drips away in a flood, Aziraphale curses the slight squeak to his voice as he asks: “Plans?”

 

“Neighbours invited me round for dinner. Again. You remember, I was on the phone with you when they asked and inbetween you talking and them talking I somehow have been roped into it. Even I know it’s a bad idea to keep telling them no when we’ve just moved in. Well,” a pause, “when I’ve...anyway. Yeah. Busy. So tomorrow then?”

 

“Yes, yes, of course. Whatever’s best for you, my dear.” Aziraphale still doesn’t hang up though, doesn’t really parse out from the resultant silence that he’s meant to; he’s too busy replaying the idea of Crowley going out for dinner without him there. Crowley’s not really into food in the same way Aziraphale is. Crowley’s into sleep.

 

Crowley clears his throat. “I’ll hang up then. Talk tomorrow.”

 

“Yes! Of course. Goodbye Crowley. Miss you.”

 

The phone clicks off. Aziraphale hesitates, phone in hand. Trying to place the feeling in his chest before pushing it away. He should’ve asked if Crowley was eating. Or sleeping, for that matter. Instead, he turns back to his books and starts on the next shelf.

 

***

 

Dinner is dreadful. A flaming disaster. The elderly couple end up babysitting their grandson so he’s there and this lad is one of the ones who bugs Crowley about the ‘angel’ on the other side of his phone calls. One of the kids who doesn’t take sharp, monosyllabic answers and glares through his sunglasses as reason enough to run home and play elsewhere. Crowley expects it to come up and he expects the grandparents, a Mrs and Mrs Scott, to shut down the boy’s line of questioning when it does. Except they don’t. They latch onto the topic themselves. Prying about who it is, why they aren’t with him, when they’re turning up. Are they dating? Are they married? How long have they known each other? Are they pretty? 

 

Crowley, prideful being that he is, would’ve loved to gush over Aziraphale. To have recounted stories and just generally showed him off. However, Aziraphale isn’t there. And they haven’t really talked about what they’re telling the rest of the little village. He knows from the Scotts that there are only a couple of people who take an active dislike to their marriage and relationship so that wouldn’t be a problem. It’s just that...well, it’s taken them six thousand years to get onto the same page on how they feel and whether they’re going to feel it together and for how long they’re going to stay feeling it together. Crowley lusts after a forever with Aziraphale like his world would end without the angel by his side. But Aziraphale is slow, is taking his steps on his own time. Which Crowley is fine with! Aziraphale hasn’t been comfortable discussing it and whilst they’ve done other things, kissing and sleeping in the same bed and always, always touching, they haven’t labelled it. Though Crowley craves the permanence. He expects Aziraphale does too. But it’s fine. The awkward dinner conversations it creates are fine. It is fine. 

 

It stays fine for another half hour before Crowley wants to slam a door in the child’s face for suggesting that ‘actually Crowley is just chronically lonely and that’s why he won’t even tell them his phone friend’s name’. Again, the women, the women who brought him a home cooked tart and are actually delightful people, don’t automatically shush the boy or tell him he’s ridiculous. That’s Crowley’s cracking point. They don’t think he’s telling the truth. They think he’s just some crazy man who’s severely alone, wiling away his time with his garden and pretending to talk to someone on the phone every day for a kick. He excuses himself when they offer dessert. The red headed Mrs Scott walks him to the door and there’s the forced small talk and then he’s walking back down the street towards home. Kicking stones and plunging any car that goes past into a sudden lack of fuel.

 

***

 

The delivery arrives at eight o’clock in the evening and Aziraphale is woken from his impromptu nap to sign for it. The little box inside the packaging box holds his future and there’s no way he’s going to lose it so he keeps it in his jacket pocket. The phone rings at a quarter past eight. 

 

“Hel--”

 

“Aziraphale!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all conversations should be had over the phone.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sounds like he’s just woken up and for some reason that stings Crowley, it  _ stings  _ that the angel can sleep without him but he can’t sleep without his angel anymore. “It’s rather late, isn’t it? I thought you were out at dinner?”

 

“I’m back from dinner.”

 

“Are you drunk?”

 

“No?”

 

“Have you been drinking?”

 

He curses his own hissing tendencies, they would’ve given him away anyway so why not tell the truth? “Yes. What have you been doing? Sleeping?”

 

“I- yes. Are you certain that all is well?”

 

“Nope,” Crowley says, collapsing onto the sofa, legs dangling off the end of it. “Dinner was  _ dreadful _ .”

 

There’s some shuffling on Aziraphale’s side, like he’s dragging a chair over to sit in. “How so, my dear?”

 

Crowley considers lamenting about the fact the extra dinner guest has forced him to miss out on what was most definitely going to be an exquisite pavlova for dessert. He considers recounting what the boy had been asking, what the kids have been asking for a while and what the adults in the village have apparently been thinking. He considers mentioning that it was the first meal he’s eaten in the past four or five days. He does none of those things.

 

“Why aren’t you here yet, angel? Why? It’s been a wee- fou-  _ ages _ ! When are you going to be here?”

 

“I can finish up--”

 

“I shouldn’t be doing this on my own.” Maybe he’s been drinking more than he thought.

 

Aziraphale’s voice is so innocently baffled, so soft. “Doing what?”

 

“This!” He waves a hand about. “We were meant to do this together but you’re all the way up there and I’m down here and I’m having to do this on my own and I can’t even talk about you. Did you know people think I’m making you up? That I’m some crazy man with his roses and his phone?”

 

“Oh, Crowley. You’re not-”

 

“I know I’m not! Shit, Aziraphale, I  _ know I’m not _ . That’s not the point!”

 

“Then what is?” Aziraphale snaps. “Crowley, you knew this was the plan if you didn’t like it then you should have said something.”

 

“You weren’t supposed to take this long! It’s like you don’t even want to come down here, like you’ve changed your mind but you don’t want to tell me so you’re just- you’re just-...”

 

“Oh…”

 

“See!  _ Fuck _ !” Crowley kicks the empty picture frame on the end table by his feet to the floor, it’s a carpet, it’s not broken. “I was right,” he says, hushed. “You’ve changed your mind. Was this too much? Too soon?  _ Fuck _ , I knew I should’ve gone slower. I knew you’d-  _ Fuck! _ ” Crowley roars, clearly holding the phone away to stop from shattering Aziraphale’s ears. 

 

“Stop it, Crowley! Stop this now.”

 

Crowley puts the phone back to his ear“What was it? Was it the- oh, was it the cottage? Or when I kissed you in the park? I know we got some funny glances but I took care of it, they would never have come near you, not that you can’t defend yourself but you shouldn’t have to and-”

 

Angels, and demons have, when so desired, the ability to travel places with a miracle. It’s exhausting and not particularly easy but it can be done. Which is how Aziraphale ends up in front of Crowley, expression thunderous but touch achingly gentle as he takes Crowley’s phone out of his white knuckled fingers. Crowley, still lying back on the sofa, looks up at the angel and stays very still. Aziraphale, saying nothing the entire time, slips the phone onto the mantlepiece and then does the same with Crowley’s sunglasses. The angel sighs about three times in the whole proceedings and lets out a terribly sweet ‘oof’ as he sits on the rug, his back leaning against the sofa so he’s facing the now lit hearth with Crowley behind him. Crowley crosses his arms, holding onto the flare of anger for dear life. He does watch the back of Aziraphale’s head though. 

 

“You’ve not fully unpacked,” Aziraphale observes after a while.

 

“Shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Anyway, what would it have mattered when you’ve got all the books to bring, everything would’ve had to be moved around anyway.” Crowley scowls at the ceiling and hopes that the angel won’t point out that he’d repeated ‘anyway’ twice in one sentence. 

 

Aziraphale, ever the angel, doesn’t mention it. “You know, my dear, I’ve had the books I wanted to bring with us ready all week.”

 

Crowley, ever the demon, doesn’t take this well at all. He sits up and practically tumbles to the floor next to Aziraphale in his rush to make sure the angel sees the full brunt of his glare except then Aziraphale isn’t looking at him. So Crowley does the next non-sensible thing and throws one leg to the other side of Aziraphale’s stretched out legs so he is sitting in the angel’s lap. Aziraphale holds on to Crowley’s hips, balancing him, and finally meets Crowley’s snarl with a sheepish smile. 

 

“Repeat that,” Crowley growls through his teeth, all the little stresses of the past few days piling up on the dinner on top of the fact that all of it could apparently have easily been avoided, “I don’t think I heard you right.”

 

Aziraphale’s fingers tap out an uncertain rhythm on Crowley’s sides, probably a poor excuse for his normal hand wringing and waistcoat adjusting but Crowley appreciates that he’s trying. 

 

“I um. Well, you see. I had to wait for something to arrive, I ordered it before we knew moving in would be permanent, you see, and you were already stressed about the move and I couldn’t just tell you what it was I was waiting for. No, definitely not. If nothing else, knowing would have added more stress than not knowing what it was but knowing that something was on its way. So, I did the best I could think of and just... took an extra few days with the books.” Aziraphale finishes his rambling explanation with another hesitant smile that grows stronger when Crowley just stares at him, mouth unwittingly open. 

 

“Do you have any idea how little I’ve  _ slept _ this week?” Crowley asks in the end, hissing pronounced in the quiet room. “It’s embarrassing, how little.”

 

“I bet you haven’t been eating either.” Aziraphale accompanies this statement with a poke to Crowley’s stomach which earns him a slap on the shoulder. 

 

“Of course I’ve fucking not, you great idiot. I’ve been busy trying not to just go back to London ‘cause of boredom and the plants can only be pushed to grow so fast and you haven’t even  _ met  _ the neighbourhood kids!” 

 

Aziraphale catches his hand and squeezes it. “You love it here, don’t you?” 

 

Crowley deflates instantly. “Yeah. Just not without you here.”

 

“I’m here now.”

 

“You’ll be going back as soon as you’ve seen to it that I’m not going to crack into the tartan flask 2.0,” Crowley huffs, rolling his eyes for good measure. 

 

Aziraphale doesn’t take this as lightly as intended, he bites his lip, brow furrowed and then pulls Crowley into a sharp kiss. Quick and meaningful and not as soft as they normally are. Like Aziraphale is determined to get his point across. To be heard. To be felt. Crowley gives into it for as long as he can, chasing after him when Aziraphale draws back again. There’s a hand on Crowley’s face now so he leans into that instead, pressing kisses to the angel’s palm and wrist.

 

“You’re not touching that damned flask,” Aziraphale says, “and I’m not going back. The books are ready to go, I’ll just call for them to be brought down here. The others can be put in storage too without me needing to be there to oversee it.”

 

“They’re your books, angel, you never trust anyone with them.”

 

“I trust you. And I think, in fact I know, that I’m needed here more than I am with them.” Aziraphale sighs and runs the hand on Crowley’s cheek up into Crowley’s hair, thumb stroking his hair line ever so softly. “I’m sorry it took so long, my dear. I truly am.”

 

Crowley shrugs, he’s gotten good at the whole apologising thing. Nightly terrors of having let your partner die on his own will do that to a being. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

 

“Don’t be. I deserved it, wholeheartedly. I’ve been an arse which isn’t fair to you.”

 

“You were a bit.” Crowley admits and darts in for another kiss, deepening it to that languid stage they’re well on their way to perfecting for themselves until there’s a hand on his chest, the other stays in his hair, and it’s pushing him back. 

 

“Crowley, we do have to talk about this. It’s not going to just go away.”

 

“I know that.” He leans in again.

 

“Though, I suppose we don’t have to talk about it right now. It is rather late.”

 

“So late,” Crowley shivers, just a little, when Aziraphale chases after him this time. “Very late.”

 

They spend a good amount of time relaxing. Kissing any and all offered skin they can reach without moving far at all. Eventually the fire starts to dim and the clock on the wall chimes. Aziraphale pulls back, tilting his head to the side, and listens to the tolls. Crowley closes his eyes.

 

“When did you last sleep?” Aziraphale asks quietly when the clock has stopped.

 

“Very badly last night.”

 

“Nightmare?”

 

Crowley’s silently averted gaze is all the answer he needs.

 

“Then I think it’s about time we both got some sleep then. Come along.”

 

“Oh but angel, that would require moving.”

 

“What an astute observation, my dear. Now, up we get.”

 

“You’re a bastard, I don’t know why I ever missed you.”

 

Aziraphale laughs and eventually just stands, letting Crowley slip to the floor. “I will treasure those words always, my love.”

 

***

 

Two days pass, each spent in the cottage. They miracle food when they need it. They unpack the rest of Crowley’s boxes and Aziraphale makes the call to have his books delivered. They share afternoon tea on the patio overlooking the garden; Crowley points to the places he’s going to turn into flower beds and the vegetable plot. Aziraphale suggests they build a greenhouse. ‘We have the space, would be a shame to waste it’. So they make plans to research how to build one on their own. They spend the nights whispering to each other when the nightmares hit. Crowley sleeps soundly that first night but Aziraphale wakes up, stone cold and still. He doesn’t move until Crowley wakes himself, attuned to when his angel stops the pretence of breathing because he’s lost elsewhere. Crowley’s not sure what it is Aziraphale dreams of. He won’t discuss it, brushes away the subject like a leaf being carried away on the winds. Crowley isn’t pushing it. They don’t have secrets but they do have things that take a while to be said. 

 

On the morning of the third day there’s a knock at the front door. Crowley is the only one in the house, Aziraphale out back exploring the little stretch of woodland that their property sits in front of. He gives it a minute to see if whoever it is will walk away. He’d rather not get out of his decadently bubbly bath if it’s just one of the kids wanting to ask an inane question. The knocking doesn’t stop so he gives up and clambers out the bath, careful not to slosh water onto the floor. He wraps a towel round his waist and pads down the carpeted stairs. On his way through the living room he spies Aziraphale’s jacket tossed neatly over a sofa arm, the same jacket he appeared in not long ago. Since then he’d taken to wearing jumpers instead of his normal waistcoat. Said it was comfier. It was certainly comfier when they were curled up on the sofa for one reason or another. Crowley shrugs on the jacket, holding it closed at the front as he opens the door, scowl in place. The dripping hair is probably detracting from it though. Can’t be helped.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Crowley! There you are.” Mrs Scott says, brandy coloured eyes bright, hinging on mischievous. 

 

“Yes?” Crowley says slowly, dragging it out with a quirked brow. Sunglasses. He’d forgotten his sunglasses. 

 

She doesn’t say anything though, her wife certainly would if she were there. “We were getting worried that we’d scared you off or something. No one has seen you around the village since before dinner.”

 

“No, I’m still here. Is that all?”

 

“Sorry, did I interrupt your shower? Oh, wait! That doesn’t look like  _ yours _ , have I interrupted you with  _ company _ ?” The way she rolls ‘company’ off her tongue makes it sound positively scandalous, she’s grinning ear to ear. No restraint. 

 

“He was in the bath, actually, when I left.” 

 

Crowley smiles, smug, leaning against the doorframe and letting go of the jacket so it hangs open, it’s relatively warm out after all. Aziraphale’s eyes drag over him before he remembers his manners. Having sidled past the woman to let Crowley swing an arm across his shoulders he holds his hand out. 

 

“I’m Aziraphale.”

 

“Lovely to meet you. I’m Mrs Scott.” She shakes his hand, then clasps it in both her hands and winks at Crowley before letting go. Crowley preens. “You must be who our mutual friend here has been waiting for.”

 

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, that would be me. Very sorry to have kept him waiting.” Then, because this moment apparently couldn’t get much better, Aziraphale leans up to kiss Crowley’s cheek. “Had some business to finish up in London. But! Here now, all is well. Am I correct in the knowledge that there’s another Mrs Scott around here that I’ve yet to make the acquaintance of?”

 

This was much easier with Aziraphale at his side. The angel could do this sort of thing in his sleep. Always knew the right thing to say. Like right now, Mrs Scott is off on a bubbly spiel about her wife and Aziraphale is humming and ahhing in all the right places. Asking the right follow up questions. Crowley’s happy enough to just watch and listen, to bask in the warmth of his angel at his side. Eventually Mrs Scott finished her anecdote about the other Mrs Scott burning the pasta the day before and she bid them goodbye with an invite to go over for another try at dinner the following evening. 

 

Crowley closes the door, smile still on his lips as he leans back against the wall to give Aziraphale space to toe off his shoes. 

 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Aziraphale says, a dusting of a blush on his cheeks. “She wasn’t anywhere near as bad as you made her out to be, you know.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I can’t imagine her calling you crazy or any of the things you said. She seemed perfectly polite to me.”

 

“It was more her grandkid. He’s a right tosser.”

 

“How old is he?”

 

“Ten.”

 

Aziraphale’s laugh fills the house and Crowley marvels at it. Drinking it in. 

 

“That’s my coat, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks when his laughter trails off into soft huffs of air. 

 

Crowley quirks a brow at him. “So what if it is?”

 

“Nothing at all, my dear. I simply wondered.” Aziraphale doesn’t rise to the bait but he does press a soft kiss to Crowley’s lips, kissing away the smirk quite thoroughly; by the time they part, Aziraphale has somehow shimmied the jacket off Crowley’s shoulders so he’s just standing there in his towel. “Your bath will be getting cold if you don’t get back to it.”

 

Crowley doesn’t really mourn the loss of the jacket so much as he mourns the loss of Aziraphale’s touch. “It’ll be warmer with two people in it.”

 

“I’ve got lunch to make, Crowley. It’ll be warm enough with just you.” 

 

Crowley mutters a ‘suppose so’, pulls the angel in by the folds off his jumper for another kiss and then heads back to his bath, whistling under his breath the whole way.

 

***

 

Dinner goes well, the second time around. For one thing, the kid isn’t there. Crowley still hasn’t learnt his name and isn’t intending to. He knows the names of the kids he likes and that’s enough. 

 

Which reminds him, Adam’s scheduled to come and stay with them in the summer holidays. He might make some new friends. Adam’s parents were a bit baffled when Adam had asked them to call Aziraphale but they’d done it and the angel had soothed any of their fears. So that had been their day. A walk in the park, a phone call and a calm dinner. 

 

The rest of the month passes in a similar routine fashion. The books arrive. They spend days unpacking and sorting and resorting. They order parts to build a greenhouse. They plot out the garden with string and wooden sticks. Mrs Scott, the red head, starts teaching Aziraphale to bake on Sunday afternoons whilst Crowley teaches Mrs Scott, brandy eyes, some basic gardening activities. Crowley introduces the kids to Aziraphale gradually, knowing that the angel isn’t as naturally inclined to understanding them as Crowley is. Kids are easy, they want so they do. Adults are harder, with misguided senses of morality or no morals at all. 

 

The month passes in a heat wave and routine domesticity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all are enjoying! Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyger, Tyger, burning bright...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry in advance, much angst in this one

Aziraphale is aware of the box in his jacket pocket every second of every day. That is unless Crowley is kissing him. Then he’s distracted entirely. The cells of his body singing in tune with his actual being, in harmony with Crowley in a way he’d only dreamed of in the abstract. But every other moment he’s aware of where his jacket is and by extension the box. It was quite a shock when he’d looped round to the front of the house from his walk in the woods a few weeks back to see Crowley  _ wearing _ the jacket. His hands so close to accidentally discovering Aziraphale’s secret. He’s sure it was pure luck that kept his secret a secret that day. 

 

He doesn’t wear the jacket for a while. Prefers the loose shirts and, if he wants, the soft jumpers during this spring heat wave. Crowley is down to his own shirts and t-shirts, sunglasses proudly left on the kitchen counter unless they have company or Crowley’s working outside. If the kids turn up then Aziraphale will warn him or take his glasses to him. It’s a sticking point between them. Aziraphale whole-heartedly believes that the kids would be fine with his eyes, they’d explain it away in that way that is innately human rather than question them further than ‘oh yellow, neat’. Crowley sticks to his guns, arguing that they’ll tell their parents and then it’ll escalate from there and it’s not like he hasn’t been wearing the glasses for years anyway. Aziraphale gives in when Crowley asks whether the angel  _ wants _ him to develop a migraine from the sunlight when he’s out with the kids. He doesn’t. Crowley and migraines don’t mix well at all.

 

It’s the first cool day of the new month when Aziraphale decides to go into town on his own, itching for a browse of the local charity shops for some old books. He takes the jacket, bids Crowley goodbye whilst the demon is still lounging in bed and leaves a sticky-note on the kettle in case Crowley forgets when he wakes up properly. 

 

***

 

The thing that wakes Crowley that unassuming morning is the sound of sirens. Barrelling down past the cottage and seemingly into the village. He spares a thought for those who own the cat on a roof and rolls over. Aziraphale’s side of the bed is cold but that’s okay, he knows he said goodbye. Recalls the lips on his, then his cheek, then his hair and the sound of the front door being closed gently. Crowley smiles and pulls Aziraphale’s pillow to his chest. It’s not until he’s had his eyes closed for long enough to start thinking back to what he’d been dreaming of that his lungs constrict. The sirens can still be heard, they’ve stopped in the village. Aziraphale is in the village. But he’s an angel. Angels can’t get hurt and require an ambulance. And Aziraphale wouldn’t commit a crime. Well. He wouldn’t get  _ caught  _ committing a crime. And there’s only three emergency services that require sirens and-- 

 

He’s miracled on clothes before he’s halfway down the stairs, bouncing off the walls in his sleep smothered state. His feet slip on the last step. The swoop of his stomach is nothing compared to the harrowing terror eating him up inside out. He gets one foot in a shoe and then miracles the other on. He glances once at the Bentley, decides it’s quicker to run and does just that. He can see the smoke coming from the other side of the village. Past the little shopping street. There’s no doubt in his mind that Aziraphale has seen it too and gone straight for it like it’s a homing beacon. Like God herself is there waiting to have cream scones and tea with him. He runs and runs and runs. He isn’t breathing. Doesn’t need to. 

 

His glasses are left behind on a counter next to a half empty mug with an angel wing handle. 

 

***

 

The fire breaks out in full flaming spirit when he’s leaving the charity shop (Empty handed as he forgot his wallet at home and thought it would be a bit inconspicuous to miracle it now) (It gives him an excuse to drag Crowley out for lunch anyway).

 

He steps into the sunlight, shading his eyes with one hand and just taking a moment to breathe in the day. It’ll rain tonight, he can feel it. And the weather forecast on Crowley’s phone said so when he checked to see how hot it was going to be. He regrets bringing his jacket, having to carry it around on one arm is a trifle annoying. 

 

That’s when he sees it, dark plumes insidious against the white clouds above. Smoke is a reminder of Crowley, of the nightmares he describes. The smoke also means others may not make it out as safely as Aziraphale had. 

 

Between one breath and the next he’s rounding the country lane corner and staring up at the house, smoke spiralling into the sky from the top floor windows. A man and his wife are standing outside, crying and being held back by other spectators as they cry and scream in another language, arms outstretched for something left behind. They’re new arrivals, it’s obvious in the way they don’t know anyone trying to help them. Aziraphale had heard they were moving in, he hadn’t realised it would be so soon. A curtain swings out a smashed window at the side of the home. It’s decorated with smiling animals. Whales and starfish and generic fish. 

 

His heart sinks. He knows what’s been left behind. 

 

***

 

He’s running through the village square when he sees it. Caught on a bollard. Aziraphale’s jacket. Crowley blanches. Tries not to throw up last night’s dinner. He’s started breathing and now he can’t stop. Staccato inhales and aborted exhales. He bundles the jacket against his chest, a corner in a pocket digging into his ribs. He starts running again. He can hear the crowd now. 

 

***

 

Aziraphale isn’t stupid about it. He knows that if he puts himself in too much danger Crowley will skin him alive. First with anger and furious shouting. Then with hidden tears and internalised guilt. He also knows that if he just walks into the house and then back out with the child there’ll be no way to pass it off without erasing the whole village’s memories. He’d rather avoid that. So he slips round the back of the house, miracles open the kitchen door and slips inside. 

 

The fire’s been contained to the upper floor for the most part and in a stike of luck the house is layed out in much the same architectural manner as their own home. There’s the muffled sounds of a child’s cry from the corner of the kitchen. A smudge of yellow and pink pyjamas. Black hair. Blue slippers. The colour co-ordination of a very young child. 

 

He calmly walks over, projecting as much tranquility as he can whilst keeping a steady eye on the flames eating their way down the stairs. There’s also the possiblity of the roof collapsing. These old houses built on wooden supports are nought but kindling to a fire. Aziraphale calls out for the child to come to him. When he doesn’t, he introduces himself, miracles away some of the smoke so the kid can breathe unhindered. He asks for the child’s name. 

 

Ben. 

 

Ben is scared and couldn’t get out the kitchen door and couldn’t get through the smoke in the lounge. Ben’s parents are outside thinking they are watching their child’s death. 

 

***

 

Crowley pushes his way through the crowd. Uncaring of the cries and insults hurled his way. The jacket is clutched to his chest with one arm. The house burning before him looks far too much like their own. The same little fence. The same wooden support beams. The same bloody flower pots framing the doorway. He’s vaguely aware that the screaming belongs to the owners of the house. That they’re crying out a name but no one can get them to calm down and let the firefighters do their job. There’s just a small engine. A small hose and water tank. It’ll take a while to put the fire out with it. And Aziraphale is inside. Crowley can’t watch this happen  _ again _ . Can’t go through this. He’s storming towards the house before the firemen notice. Determined to drag his infernal angel out of there by the back of his shirt if need be. 

 

But then someone is dragging  _ him _ back by the back of  _ his  _ shirt. Mrs Scott. Red hair. Works a farm. Strong. He bellows at her to let go, tries to kick at her legs. Doesn’t care that she’s Aziraphale’s friend. That she’s his friend. Aziraphale is in there. Aziraphale is dying  _ again _ . After he  _ promised _ ! He  _ promised and swore and vowed _ that this wouldn’t happen again! That he wouldn’t leave him alone! 

 

It’s only when Mrs Scott slaps him, hard across the cheek, that he realises he’d been shouting every thought in his head. That the crowd is turning on him, confused and indignant that he be making a scene on top of the house owners’ scene. Mrs Scott and Mrs Scott try to get him to explain, to tell them why he thinks Aziraphale is in there. 

 

“No one’s gone in, sweetheart,” Mrs Scott, the bubbly one, the warm one, says soothingly, holding one of his shoulders. 

 

“Aziraphale isn’t in there, Crowley. He’s not, we promise.” Mrs Scott, the red one, the one who burns pasta but bakes amazing tarts, says. 

 

Crowley scowls and snarls and tries to push them away, tries to walk in his angel’s footsteps but the Scotts hold him in his place. He’s a demon. He could use any variety of ways to have his own way but all he can think of is Aziraphale. Of another burning building. Of that keening loss ripping through him. Of burying it in anger then alcohol and only grieving when he had Aziraphale back and it was all pointless. There’s a sharp crack and the firemen start shouting for everyone to back further away. The Scotts, to their testament, don’t try to force him back down the street. 

 

They stay in their strange motif: the demon held back by the humans with the angel burning away in the house, as the roof of the building collapses inwards in a shower of sparks and screaming walls. 

 

***

 

The child, Ben, clings to him and hides his face in his shoulder. Tears soaking Aziraphale’s shirt and neck. He holds Ben closer.

 

***

 

Crowley sinks to his knees as the building sinks into itself. When it’s settled the firemen start up the water again. He doesn’t care. He’s gone. Far gone. In another time. In another place. Whited out in his mind. People brush past him, nudging him to get somewhere else. Someone shouts out a boy’s name. It doesn’t register. Then there’s a name that does. 

 

“Zira?” he breathes, disinclined to believe he can be handed the same miracle twice in so short a time but there he is. 

 

Barely a speck of soot on him, the pompous bastard. Crowley feels his lungs expand to the point of pain. He doubles over the jacket. Forehead almost pressing against his knees. A hysterical laugh bubbles up his throat and shudders through him. Then Aziraphale is  _ there _ . Saying something. Crowley can’t hear what he’s saying, it’s like he’s underwater and Aziraphale is a million miles away but he’s  _ not _ .  _ He’s not _ . He’s right in front of him. Crowley knows this because Aziraphale is touching him. Is running fingers through his hair then down his back then up his arms then pushing his fringe back and tilting up his face up and holding his face in both his hands, tight so Crowley knows he’s really there. Just like after a nightmare. Aziraphale holds him with his strength unholstered. With bruising grip on his arms and numbing kisses and locking embraces. Aziraphale is still speaking. Crowley knows he’ll hear him again soon. He could never hear his angel again and he wouldn’t care as long as his angel is there. 

 

***

 

“I love you,” Aziraphale repeats, looking for any sign of recognition in Crowley’s face but the demon is just grinning at him, tears still tracking down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, my dear, I am. I’m sorry. But I’m okay. I’m here. I’m safe, I promise. You’ve got me, I’m here.”

 

Aziraphale unfurls one of Crowley’s hands, fisted in Aziraphale’s lost jacket, and places Crowley’s palm on his cheek. 

 

“You’ve got me.” 

 

The boy, Ben, is having a similar reunion with his parents too, off to the side. The crowd standing round adoringly. The Scotts, blessed human beings that they are, are stood in front of Aziraphale and Crowley doing their best to block them from view. Not that anyone is paying them any attention anyway. 

 

Aziraphale looks up at the Scotts and makes a quick decision. With a shallow bit of meddling he persuades them to believe that they see Aziraphale walk Crowley home. In reality, he miracles them to their bedroom floor. The ridiculously plush carpet that Crowley had insisted on soft and familiar beneath their knees. 

 

This, at last, seems to jumpstart the demon and the next thing Aziraphale knows, he’s flat on his back with a demon wrapped around him. Kisses being pressed into his neck and shoulder and cheeks and eyelids and nose and forehead and ears and chin. Aziraphale tips his head down to tease Crowley gently into a proper kiss, calming down the demon’s feverish pace with his own reassurances. With a slow swipe of his tongue along Crowley’s bottom lip. With a languid drag of his fingers through Crowley’s hair. With a relaxed sigh into Crowley’s parted lips. Crowley cradles the back of Aziraphale’s head with his hand, an extra blanket against the floor. Neither of them are sure how long they lie there. Neither of them care for anything beyond soothing the other in all the ways they know how.

 

***

 

They don’t light the hearth for two weeks. They try it, the evening of the house fire, but the smell sends Crowley briskly walking outside, snapping at Aziraphale that he just needs some air. He regrets snapping as soon as he’s grounded himself in the grass under his bare feet and the smashed remains of an empty plant pot. He fixes it before he goes back inside. Then he curls up on Aziraphale’s lap and tries not to fall asleep whilst the angel reads a book out loud. 

 

***

 

Aziraphale spends a lot of time debating whether he should reveal the ring box now. To give Crowley a physical manifestation of Aziraphale’s promise not to leave him alone. It’d be more meaningful in that way, in light of their recent scare. Yet...then it would be tainted, in a way. They’d look at each other and this bit of jewellery and they’d think of fire and smoke and despair. So he goes back to waiting to find the right time. Despite carting the jacket through the streets, Crowley still hasn’t found the box. He can keep not finding it for a while longer. Aziraphale puts the jacket in the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought! Hope y'all are still enjoying this <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One antichrist, one cat, one month since the second fire. These things take time...

Adam has had a growth spurt since the almost apocalypse and is not happy with it. Crowley and Aziraphale hear all about it as they serve the newly arrived antichrist  (Crowley drove to pick him up) (Aziraphale did last minute preparations for the spare bedroom and buying food for Dog) a generous helping of ice cream and strawberry tart. The strawberries, Crowley tells Adam proudly, are from his garden. Adam gives this its due attention and then starts talking about how Pepper is in the process of convincing her mum to let her have a dog, so that Dog will have a friend too. A proper canine friend. Aziraphale leans back in his chair and crosses his legs under the kitchen table. He likes Adam. Sort of hard not to, really. He’s an odd kid, much more mature than the kids he’s met around their village. Anathema’s been teaching him about whales and dolphins, how they communicate and how only one half of their brain goes to sleep whilst the other is awake to keep them swimming. This, of course, is a winning topic for Crowley who is now engaged in an energetic conversation about whether whales dream or not. 

 

Aziraphale finishes off his slice of tart and beams at Crowley (who casts him one short, smug look) when the demon silently slides over his own half-eaten bowl. 

 

***

 

Aziraphale curls up around Crowley that night. Adam asleep in the spare room next door. They have a week before they have to drive Adam back home. Crowley is sitting up against the headboard, sipping at the last dregs of his wine with his other hand drawing shapes on Aziraphale’s back, Aziraphale’s head resting on the demon’s stomach. 

 

“You know,” Crowley muses, “Mrs Young thought I was you. Said I looked very different to how Adam had described you.”

 

“I assume you went along with it,” Aziraphale teases, gratified by Crowley’s rumbling laugh. 

 

“Until Adam came along, yeah.”

 

They lull into silence again. Aziraphale feels his eyes drooping and lets them close. He’ll have to move when Crowley’s finished drinking. They’ll shuffle and rearrange to actually go to sleep. But until then he can stay still. 

 

Crowley sighs, sets the glass down on his bedside table next to yet another pair of sunglasses and stretches his arms up until his shoulders pop. 

 

“She wants to meet you,” Crowley says, “his dad too. Adam said you’d be coming with me to drop him home at the end of the week.”

 

“That’s rather presumptuous of him, isn’t it?”

 

“He’s the antichrist, angel. I think he just knows how these things are going to wind up.”

 

Aziraphale hums. He makes an effort to be no help at all when Crowley tries to lie down.

 

***

  
  


They’re on their lunchtime walk round the village so that Adam can walk Dog and pick up some sweets from the village shop. Aziraphale brought bread to feed the ducks in the park but they’ve had to pause in the village square. So Crowley is occupied watching the antichrist impart the importance of not biting at Aziraphale’s trousers, hilarious thought it is to watch the angel hopping and scowling, to Dog when a kid starts running full-pelt across the village square towards them. He vaguely recognises the parents calling after their wayward son but struggles to place  _ where _ he knows them from. 

 

The kid skids to a stop in front of Aziraphale, a toothy smile on his face and he promptly doubles over to catch his breath, wheezing. His denim jacket has home-sewn patches in a collage across its back. Crowley wonders if that’s the hip trend and if so whether that would solve their christmas dilemma for Adam. Adam, present-time Adam, wanders back over with a cowed Dog and pats the boy on the back, murmuring something about counting breaths in that awfully mature tone of his. Crowley takes a step forward but Aziraphale mimics him, ending up half in front of the demon. What’s he thinking? That Crowley is gonna tempt his shoelaces into tying themselves together or something? The kid’s obviously struggling to catch his breath, probably asthma, though now he thinks about it maybe Aziraphale thinks  _ he’s _ doing that. Crowley scowls at the angel from behind his glasses but lets it be in the end. 

 

“It’s Ben,” Aziraphale asks politely, “right?”

 

The boy straightens and Adam quirks a questioning brow at Crowley, who unfortunately had taught him how to do that yesterday. The demon shrugs and looks the boy over again to try and place him amongst the other kids that hang around their house and the woods behind. He’s not recognisable though, with his freckled brown skin and his hair is an even curlier mess than Adam’s. 

 

“Yes! That’s me!” The boy is practically bouncing on the tip of his toes. “You’re the one who saved me, aren’t you? My parents said you disappeared after.”

 

Crowley locks up. 

 

It’s been weeks. A  _ month _ . He is fine. Memories do  _ not _ have this much of an effect on him. This boy does  _ not _ induce an unholy amount of resentment in him. Not in a million years. That would be delusional. 

 

Aziraphale, bless him, begs his pardon to the boys and starts turning to follow after Crowley who’s already well on his way back down the street. Crowley throws a hand up behind him in a clear ‘stop’ gesture. Aziraphale lets him go.

 

***

 

He waits for a couple of breaths. Gives Crowley time to change his mind. When he doesn’t, Aziraphale musters up a smile and turns back to face the boys. Adam’s eyes are already brimming with questions. Ben, on the other hand, doesn’t seem phased at all. 

 

“Who was that?” Ben asks, charmingly tactless in that way only children can be. 

 

“That’s Aziraphale’s husband.” Adam states. 

 

Aziraphale sighs, opening his mouth to dissuade  _ that _ notion before it gets back to Crowley but is interrupted by the arrival of Ben’s dad. 

 

“I’m so sorry if my son’s upset you and your...uh…” Ben’s dad trails off, an expression like his stomach just started hula dancing twisting up his face, “your hmm…”

 

“Husband.” Adam and Ben supply at the same time.

 

Ben’s dad relaxes a bit. “Yes. That. Anyway, my wife and I wanted to say thank you again for saving our son.”

 

“Thank you!” Ben pipes up again, he misses the proud smile his Dad shoots him. 

 

“It’s fine, no thanks necessary,” Aziraphale reassures, “I’m glad you’re all unhurt.” 

 

All but one, he thinks.

 

***

 

“You saved that kid?” Adam asks as soon as they’re out of earshot of Ben and his family; they’re taking the long way home, to give Crowley time. “What did you do? Was he ill?”

 

Aziraphale would rather not discuss it. Would rather be back home where he can be sure that Crowley is alright. Maybe he could leave Adam to amuse himself in the backyard woods. Though he’d probably get bored on his own, so used to the Them being around…Adam frowns up at him and he realises he’s waited too long to answer. 

 

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I did. There was a house fire, you see, and Ben had gotten trapped inside. It was just a normal fire so I went and got him out. Least I could do.”

 

“Did Crowley help?” 

 

“Ah, he uh. Not exactly. He um, mostly watched?”

 

Adam’s face clouds over despite the clear sky above. “Like last time?”

 

“I,” Aziraphale reigns in the shock from his voice, “How do you know about that?”

 

Adam shrugs. 

 

They leave it at that.

 

***

 

He’s distinctly aware of the moment Aziraphale comes round the side of the cottage and into the garden. Crowley is trying to bury his own troubles (along with the tray of pansies Aziraphale had fallen in love with at the garden centre) when the aforementioned angel hovers behind him. He waits for Crowley to finish patting the pansy into the earth and to straighten up before he wraps his arms around the demon’s waist. Crowley forces his jaw to unclench.

 

“Adam?”

 

“Introduced him to the Scotts,” Aziraphale whispers into his ear, respecting Crowley’s general aversion to loud  _ anything _ when strung out like this. “He’s being taught to drive a tractor.”

 

“Is that even legal? He’s like eleven,” Crowley says, relaxing into the angel’s laughter rumbling through into his own back.

 

“Mrs Scott seemed to think he was a natural,” Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s chest gently, “We’re going over for tea tonight but if you’ve developed a freak cold by this evening I’m sure they won’t begrudge your absence.”

 

Crowley covers Aziraphale’s clasped hands with one of his own, miracling the dirt away. “You’re too good to me, angel.”

 

“Mmm, it is sort of in the job description.”

 

Now it’s Crowley’s turn to start laughing first, and he does. Because the memories will not always be like this, fresh and raw. Because he has Aziraphale, heart and soul and body, just as he has for millennia. 

 

***

 

Crowley does miss dinner. They call it a migraine. In reality he sleeps straight through ‘til seven in the next morning when Aziraphale gets out of the bed to cook up some breakfast for Adam. He’s an early riser. Just another quirk of the antichrist, he’d told Aziraphale that first morning.

 

He stumbles into the kitchen just as Aziraphale is sliding a generous helping of beans onto Adam’s already full plate. He wears his glasses around Adam. He knows it’s a bit of a moot point, the kid’s seen his eyes already, but he’s still a kid and it’s a habit he doesn’t want to break. Aziraphale greets him with a silent kiss on the cheek and a mug of tea pressed into his hands. Adam takes a moment mid-bite to say a garbled ‘good morning’. Crowley grunts his acknowledgment and leans back against a counter, the sun soaking into his black dressing gown through the open window. Dog barks once from his completely mis-used dog bed (both non-human entities know that Dog doesn’t sleep in it; it’s an open secret they’re willing to keep). Aziraphale sits opposite Adam and digs into his own breakfast. He doesn’t speak much in the morning either despite the fact that he also doesn’t sleep anywhere near as much as Crowley. Overall, it’s a perfectly normal morning.

 

That is until  _ something _ presses against Crowley’s back with a strained mew. 

 

He will deny that he jumped for at least another century. 

 

Adam laughs as Aziraphale tugs on one end of Crowley’s dressing gown belt to pull him over to his chair, not bothering to look up from his breakfast. With the new perspective Crowley can see that his attacker is in fact just a skinny kitten. Black all over, golden green eyes peering up at him haughtily like even the cat is judging him for his sunglasses. He knows Aziraphale thinks he should take them off around Adam. Adam hasn’t made anything clear on the subject. Crowley cradles his mug and wishes it into being a coffee instead. He cocks his hips to the side so he’s leaning against the back of Aziraphale’s chair, still focused on the kitten now taking wobbly steps back towards the open window. There’s a flower box under that window. It’s a stroke of luck, apparently, that he hasn’t planted anything in it yet. He was going to put Aziraphale’s pansies there until yesterday’s change of plans.

 

“Quick question,” he says when he’s halfway through his mug and the cat is trying to chase its own shadow, “when did we get a cat?”

 

“Yesterday.”

 

Crowley lowers his glasses down his nose to prove to Aziraphale just how truly unimpressed he is with this answer. The angel smirks and eats a mouthful of fried egg. 

 

“I’ll rephrase then, shall I. Why is there a cat in our kitchen?”

 

“We brought her home yesterday.”

 

If it wasn’t for the antichrist watching with rapt attention from across the table, Crowley may very well have stalked into the garden in a huff. It wasn’t just Aziraphale who could get away with that after all. Aziraphale caves soon after speaking though and sets his cutlery down. In what is possibly one of the strangest moments of Crowley’s life, or at least his experience with what the angel does with his hands when nervous, Aziraphale undoes the sloppily loose knot of Crowley’s dressing gown and reties it with all the casual grace as if it were a normal part of their day. Crowley is glad that he doesn’t need to breathe in order to survive when the angel is done with his explanation and his dressing gown mission. 

 

“So what you’re saying,” Crowley says in a bid to clarify and to not blush at the pure domesticity, “is that Adam found a kitten in a hay bale, because of course, and you decided to bring it home to what? Keep it safe for Adam to take home?”

 

Aziraphale freezes, fingers still fiddling with Crowley’s belt. Crowley would move away, for decency’s sake or Adam’s, but he also cannot be bothered. The coffee is yet to kick in, after all. 

 

“Actually,” Adam says, drawing Aziraphale’s full attention and giving the angel a reason to drop his hands, “I think she’d rather stay here, I don’t think she likes Dog.”

 

Crowley narrows his eyes at him. “You  _ think she’d rather stay here _ ?”

 

“Yes,” Adam nods.

 

Aziraphale lets out a quiet sigh and kicks out Crowley’s ankle when he starts repeating the question in an even more patronising tone. “She’s welcome to stay here, it might be nice to have a pet around.”

 

“Oh,” Crowley exclaims, turning to face Aziraphale now. “Oh! Really? Really! Good to know I’ve got-”

 

“My dear.” Aziraphale glares up at him. Crowley glares back, remembers the glasses and slinks back to the counter. 

 

Adam covers a laugh with a cough when Crowley jumps (again) as the cat tries to climb onto his shoulder. 

 

***

 

They name her Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my friend Kira for reading this over for me <3 
> 
> Question for all you readers! How much longer would you like to see this go on? 
> 
> I've got one more chapter outlined but if y'all have things you'd like to see, I can have a think about whether I can form more chapters?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'But the angel has spent the last few months cooped up with Crowley in close quarters so maybe he just needs a break. He’d rather Aziraphale had told him outright, rather than almost killing his own blessed flowers, but he could hardly expect perfect communication when he was also crap at telling the angel things (if after six millennia of friendship they can’t crack it, then it’s an impossibility). 
> 
> Such as how he knows...'
> 
> The final chapter is here! Enjoy!

“You must be Aziraphale, nice to meet you. Your husband had told us you’d be coming.” Mrs Young shakes his hand, smiling in a very parental manner. “Would you like to come in for some tea?”

 

Crowley, having lugged over Adam’s suitcase, nudged the slightly shocked Aziraphale to follow the woman into the house. Adam could be heard thumping up the stairs in a rush. Aziraphale does not move. They both start speaking at the same time.

 

“You didn’t correct her?” 

 

“Angel, this bag is quite heavy so if we could just- correct her on what?”

 

“She called you ‘my husband’.”

 

Crowley flushes and Aziraphale knows, even with the sunglasses, that Crowley has dropped his gaze.

 

“Yes well.” He clears his throat. “Didn’t seem worth the effort, does it? Think of it as a bit of mischief.”

 

“You’ve  _ never _ corrected it.”

 

“Hardly have to with you doing it for me all the time. Now if you’d just- Angel. It’s going to rain in a minute so would you please--”

 

Aziraphale turns and grabs Crowley’s shoulders. “Why don’t you correct them?”

 

Crowley frowns and tries to switch the suitcase to his other hand behind his back as the original is starting to cramp. “I told you, Zira, mischief and all that. I swear, sometimes it’s like you forget I’m a demon.”

 

Aziraphale’s face does  _ something _ that he has no control over; then Adam is back downstairs, asking what’s taking Crowley so long. Crowley shoots Aziraphale A Look. He drops his hands and Crowley shoulders past, muttering under his breath about infernal angels and their weird questions.

 

***

 

They stay for half an hour. 

 

Enough time for Aziraphale to drink his tea and for the Youngs to allude to his supposed marriage five times. Crowley is no help at all; he stays busy talking the newly reunited Them in circles in the living room. 

 

Aziraphale has to actually drag him back to the car. 

 

The drive back is tinged with tension but neither of them so much as hint towards addressing it. Queen plays, of course, and Crowley taps his along on the steering wheel.

 

***

 

He discreetly steers Crowley to tending to his garden when they get home mid-afternoon. If Crowley were to ever find out that the reason the pansies suddenly start hating their spot in the ground is because of a well-intentioned miracle then...well. Aziraphale would be spending an evening with a sulking demon. He’d also likely find his cocoa supply vanished into the ether until Crowley decided otherwise. 

 

With Crowley safely out the way for a while, he holes himself up in their bedroom.

 

The jacket hangs in front of him, tucked to the very end of his side of the wardrobe. 

 

It shouldn’t go wrong. He’s got a plethora of proof pointing to the idea that it will, in fact, go right. Well, it’ll go well.

 

***

Aziraphale is up to something. If the scene in the Youngs’ doorway hadn’t tipped him off, the suddenly wilting flowers would’ve been a dead giveaway that something was Up. Capital intended in the non-usual sense. 

 

But the angel has spent the last few months cooped up with Crowley in close quarters so maybe he just needs a break. He’d rather Aziraphale had told him outright, rather than almost killing his own blessed flowers, but he could hardly expect perfect communication when he was also crap at telling the angel things (if after six millennia of friendship  _ they _ can’t crack it, then it’s an impossibility). 

 

Such as how he knows  _ exactly _ what’s in the jacket pocket gathering dust in their wardrobe. 

 

***

It’s a cloudy Tuesday morning when Aziraphale announces a craving for sushi. They have a short conversation pertaining to the vast amount of reasons saying that simply miracleing up some sushi is a bad idea. Then they’re piling into the Bentley on a mission.

 

Crowley compliments his outfit as they set off and Aziraphale, completely unthinkingly, does that happy little wiggle that never fails to get a fond smile from Crowley. He watches the extremely blurred countryside whip by.

 

Crowley leaves his glasses in with the spares and hums his own tune.

 

***

Aziraphale is wearing the jacket. The Jacket. 

 

Crowley had slept in until the last possible minute that morning. So he’d been in prime position to ogle his angel getting dressed. Aziraphale had slipped on the decades-old thing as if he’d never stopped wearing it and Crowley hadn’t missed the angel’s shoulders relaxing when his fingers had clearly found what they’d been looking for. 

 

It was happening and it had certainly been motivation enough for Crowley to get out of bed.

 

He’d gotten dressed in the best outfit he could put together, toeing the line so he didn’t tip Aziraphale off that he knew something was happening but also trying to look more than decent. He’d passed Aziraphale in the kitchen, of course pausing until Aziraphale gave him some attention (a kiss on the cheek this time round), whilst the angel had been admiring the pansies in the window box with Eve begging for treats and a fuss. The cat’s rarely present in the house after 11am but makes herself known when she is home. He’d slunk round the side of the house, careful to make sure his sauntering was inconspicuous enough, and had closed the shed door behind him. 

 

It isn’t a spacious shed but it’s the one area of the grounds that Aziraphale had and still has never stepped into. Because it’s Crowley’s. And it’s chock-full of plant pots, compost and spiders. It has a fair amount of dust but no books, cocoa, tea or food made for human beings. It does, however, house a box. Engraved with a pattern reminiscent of feathers. Of intertwining lives and wings. Diametrically opposed forces symbolised in a perfect union. Crowley had unearthed it, that morning, from where it had been hidden in a cracked flowerpot. 

 

It’d been hidden in that very pot since he’d moved to London proper. However he’s had the engraved ring inside the box since it was gifted to him during that regrettably damp period as the Black Knight when everything he’d been doing was being cancelled out without the benefits of The Arrangement. Merlin had been a good lad. Had reminded him of Aziraphale. That heart of gold but a bit of a bastard at his core. He’d only met Merlin once. When Crowley had popped over because Aziraphale wanted dinner company. They’d had one meeting and then he’d had a box and a note.

 

_ ‘Make him happy when he lets you.’ _

 

Merlin had died with Arthur thirty years later.

 

***

 

Aziraphale doesn’t own a mobile phone. Has never really grasped the necessity when the bookshop, and now the house, has a landline. Crowley has one but forgets it in the house more often than not nowadays. Which is why, on their quest for sushi, they’re fighting over who got them lost. Aziraphale is running out of space for the map spread across his knees.

 

“Watch the road,  _ Crow _ ley!”

 

“It’s fine! Stop fussing and give me the map.”

 

Crowley’s got one hand on the wheel and one trying to tug at the paper. Aziraphale snatches it out of his reach and tries not to swear when they take a bend far too fast for anyone to even think the driver has heard of the word ‘safe’.

 

“You’re driving, you cannot have the map and drive. I can read perfectly well, as you know. You’re the one with the track record, my dear.”

 

Crowley spluttes, staring right at him until Aziraphale points at the road again. “Are you-? Seriously-?”

 

“Oh take the next left.”

 

“No!”

 

“Well then we’re gonna miss the road we need.”

 

Crowley takes the left. “I’ve half a bloody mind to just drive us home. Sushi isn’t worth getting lost in fields of feckin’ cows for.”

 

“You’re being melodramatic, dear.”

 

“You’re the one who’s making us go through this for sushi! It’s a bunch of rice and raw fish,” Crowley’s knuckles are white on the wheel as he takes a calming breath, “we really didn’t need to be doing this.”

 

“I didn’t ask you to come with me,” Aziraphale says petulantly, smoothing a portion of the map out unsuccessfully. 

 

Crowley huffs, unimpressed. “You implied it well enough, angel.”

 

“I implied nothing of the sort. I could have come on my own and then I wouldn’t be lost, would I?”

 

“Oh, that’s rich of you! I’m not the one who got us lost.”

 

The blur that is the passing hedge gets blurrier. As if that were possible. Greens and browns merge into one swipe of colour. He feels a bit sick. Aziraphale holds onto the dashboard and peeks over at his companion. He’s facing the right way, at least, but he doesn’t seem to be paying any active attention, he’s running on muscle memory by the seeing of things. Aziraphale lets go of the map to rest a hand on Crowley’s arm but aborts the plan, he doesn’t want to make him jump and crash the car.

 

“We can turn around and go home,” Aziraphale says at last, trying not to say it like it’s a case of charity.

 

Crowley’s jaw clenches anyway. “You wanted sushi.”

 

“Yes, but I think I’ve lost my appetite. We can always try again tomorrow. Ask Mrs Scott for some dire--” The car jerks to a stop and Aziraphale is heartily glad that he miracled their seatbelts into place when they hit 100mph a while back. “Crowley?”

 

Crowley doesn’t move except to close his eyes. He looks, Aziraphale thinks, like he’s trying to desperately to keep his patience, which isn’t often his modus operandus for a reason. Normally he just loses his patience then apologises afterwards. He only really says sorry if it’s a reflex in public (“oh, stood on your foot, sorry, Zira”) or that one time in the almost-apocalypse when he’d been desperate. Aziraphale isn’t sure how to approach a more patient Crowley.

 

“So,” Crowley says slowly, “you don’t want to go for sushi.”

 

It’s much more a statement than a question and now Aziraphale feels like he’s missing a deeper meaning to this conversation.

 

“As you said, dear--” Crowley makes a choking sound and abruptly climbs out the car, door left hanging open.

 

Aziraphale swallows and takes a moment to fold the map back into the glove box before following Crowley onto the grass verge; the demon is leaning on a wooden fence and watching a crow hop nervously around a scarecrow. The scarecrow tips to the ground and the bird flies away with a squawk. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says quietly, standing next to Crowley, “I should have listened to you in the first place. I know you don’t even really like sushi.”

 

“You do though,” Crowley says, equally as soft. 

 

He seems to be working off some of his anger by cutting off the water sprinklers a field over.

 

“That’s beside the point, my dear. We’re lost and you didn’t even want to go. That’s not very fair.”

 

“Life isn’t fair, angel.”

 

Aziraphale smiles a little at the name and nudges Crowley with his shoulder. “You know, I do believe this was our first argument that hasn’t involved a disappearing act of the century.”

 

Crowley tenses again, turning his head to glare. “Was that meant to be a joke?” He sneers.

 

“Well, sort of, one could see it as an observation, I guess…”

 

Crowley shakes his head. “It’s not funny. Do you think I enjoy fighting with you?”

 

That seems like a trick question.

 

“Well...my dear, you  _ are _ a demon.”

 

“So I enjoy annoying you! Not fighting with you! There’s a difference.” Crowley turns back to the field and a stray cat falls out of a tree.

 

“Oh.”

 

***

Crowley’s simmering frustration is not helped by the revelation that not all cats naturally always land on their feet, he knows this now because Aziraphale (silently) has to save the cat he’s just knocked from the top of the tree across the field. 

 

What’s the angel even thinking though? That he gets some cruel enjoyment out of them yelling at each other? That it makes him feel  _ light and giddy _ inside rather than the sparks of anger and that horrid sense of drowning in quicksand?

 

He’s had enough of them fighting against each other to last a millennia, thank you very much. Which, he has to grudgingly admit, means he ought to do something towards fixing this. 

 

“Look,” he starts, “I’m sorry that I- No, that you-  _ fucking heaven,  _ I’m sorry that the day got screwed up. I know you’ve been waiting for this.”

 

He turns himself to see Aziraphale frown, tha pouty one that means he’s trying to process more than one layer of meaning.

 

Eventually, he ventures on with, “it was just sushi.”

 

Crowley bites back his sigh and softens his expression; he covers the hand Aziraphale has resting on the fence, deliberately stroking his thumb over the angel’s ring finger.

 

“No. It wasn’t.”

 

Another second of frowning and then comprehension rises on Aziraphale’s face like the sun. But a bit more shocked.

 

“You knew,” Aziraphale breathes, his full-step turn to Crowley dislodging the demon’s hand from his. “How do you know?”

 

“You left the receipt out when I came to say goodbye, the day I moved into the cottage.” Crowley shrugs one shoulder. “I haven’t looked at it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

“It was meant to be a surprise.”

 

“I think it’d still be a surprise if you’d planned all along to propose in the middle of nowhere, ten miles west of our perfectly comfortable house.”

 

“You said we were lost!”

 

“I know where the house is, not your bloody restaurant! That’s not even the point!”

 

Aziraphale nods, on hand dipping into his pocket and emerging with the velvet box. He looks down at it with something akin to trepidation in his eyes. Crowley can’t help (also doesn’t want to be able to help himself) admiring Aziraphale like this. They’re both tired and kind of hungry but they’re together. 

 

He reaches into his own pocket as Aziraphale starts speaking, still looking at the box.

 

***

 

“I thought it would arrive earlier or we’d move later. But you so wanted to get out of your flat, leave what happened and that stain on the floor behind; who was I to ask you to wait when I couldn’t tell you why I wanted to wait? So, I lied and let you go. However, it took a long time to arrive. One little box. You needed me to be with you but I was waiting for a  _ box _ . I think, with hindsight, I was rather missing the point of why I even wanted this box.

 

It was all planned out though. I was going to move in and you’d cook that lasagna recipe you love. We’d have some wine, a red, and then I was going to ask. Only, it really didn’t go to plan, either time now, honestly. Sorry about that. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is…

 

Anthony. J. Crowley, demon of no-one’s side but ours, my best friend and love of six millennia--”

 

“Marry me.”

 

Aziraphale jolts his head up to see that, during his preoccupation with his rambling speech, Crowley has beat him to it. He’s not kneeling, Aziraphale would have noticed him moving that much, but he is holding a ring (beautiful gold, almost the same shade as Crowley’s eyes, engraved with something) out to him with one hand, a wooden ring box (also engraved) in the other. 

 

***

 

Crowley does his best to resist the temptation to shuffle under Aziraphale’s intense gaze. Aziraphale had made a quiet gasp when he’d looked up; it’s still echoing through Crowley to his core. 

 

“Angel...Aziraphale,” he says his name like it’s a confession in and of itself; in a way, it’s a concession, to stop hiding behind flimsy pretences like he can with the former name. “I’m in love with you, Zira. If you don’t know that by now then you really are much more obtuse than I give you credit for.” 

 

The angel laughs, a trilling chuckle; Crowley grins and continues.

 

“There could be a hundred ineffable bloody plans for me, angel, a million prophecies written by some long-gone hag I’ve never met. But none of them will be the future I want or will fight for if you’re not by my side. And I know you will be, as you always have been, but pity a demon’s possessive streak and marry me anyway?”

 

There are tears in the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes, glittering in the sunlight. There are tears but he is smiling. Radiating love and joy and then he’s nodding and pushing at Crowley’s chest. 

 

“I was meant to be asking you, you fiend.”

 

Crowley laughs too. He thinks (would never admit to thinking it though) that he understands why there’s always so much hugging and spinning in films now. There’s so much energy buzzing under his skin, wiping out any thoughts but ‘Aziraphale, Zira, Angel, please’.

 

“Yes.” Aziraphale says, wiping at his eyes, “Yes, of course yes.”

 

Crowley slips the ring onto Aziraphale’s finger and lets Aziraphale do the same for him. Aziraphale lifts Crowley’s hand to his lips and kisses the newly settled ring, holding eye contact the whole time. Crowley flushes and the dam breaks. He sweeps Aziraphale into a kiss, following after him when the angel turns them to be leaning back against the fence. 

 

The two ring boxes, unharmed, are dropped to the grass at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. I hope you all enjoyed this fic and will continue to enjoy it in the future! 
> 
> I'm planning to extend this fic into a series with a couple or more of oneshots added at later dates so keep an eye out if you so wish. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read this far and waited so patiently for updates! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> Beta by [Guardian_Thorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Thorn/pseuds/Guardian_Thorn) Thank you <3
> 
> Prompts welcome here and on my writing tumblr [WordToTheRose](https://wordtotherose.tumblr.com/) or come say hi on my main [Guardian-Rose-Petal](https://guardian-rose-petal.tumblr.com/)


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